I have never forgotten seeing the movie "The Runaway Bride." In the movie, Richard Gere is writing a newspaper article about a woman who has left several men standing at the altar, unable to take the final walk. She makes the walk TO the altar, but the staying and walking away WITH a partner to whom she has committed her entire life is the journey she has not been able to take. He goes from man to man with one simple question -- "How did Maggie like her eggs prepared?" Each man, in turn would reply "scrambled, like me," "over easy, like me," "soft boiled, like me." Each time, no matter how customized the order, each and every time -- "... just like me."
It has stuck with me for many years -- that idea that I morph into whatever situation I find myself. I have spent hours. In meetings, in therapy, donating many sleepless nights thinking about this part of myself. My eggs are music, it seems. Many other things, too, but music is the thing that stands out most. On a good day I will tell you that my musical tastes run the gambit, but the real truth is that I just take on whatever YOU like. It hit me tonight as I drove home listening to country/western which was still on my radio as the result of a recent visit from my lovable niece, Abbi. As I listened to the songs roll out one after the other, I took in the fondness of having spent time with her, getting to know about her and her "eggs," but also aware of the fact that I did not know even that much about myself.
Oprah regularly talks about "the thing I know for for sure." Oh, if only ...
I have hit one of those dark nights of the soul and am suffering under the heaviness of its hold. After a particularly difficult couple of years deepening the relationship with my sister, I am, once again, crumbling at the foundational structure of my life. I have spent my whole life trying to conform and, as a result, I don't even know what I like. I'm standing at a jumping off place and terrified to go forward, even though I know that going back is clearly NOT an option. I'm not sure which music I am willing to take as my own, but I know that listening to someone else's station will never satisfy the real me.
I grew up with a Mother who was a complete enigma to me. She was a mixed bag of tender, fearful, judgmental, opinionated, fragile, rigid, loving, harsh and, oh yea, did I say fearful? At a very young age, I somehow learned that the game was to TRY to guess what she was going to need (demand), and when. When I should jump in and take over and when to stand back and offer never-ending validation of her. The trigger has been woven into my DNA like the color of my eyes or and curve of my smile. I made peace with my Mother before she died -- I thought. But it appears, as I bang on this keyboard, that I may just need to make peace with myself. I am, after all, a grown woman. I have listened to hours and hours of wisdom regarding the growing up process. Things like, "if your parents put your shoes on the wrong feet, shame on them. If you're still wearing them that way, shame on you." Simple enough concept. My problem is that the word shame creates a Pavlovian response in my soul. I hear the word and that is the ONLY thing that my subtle anatomy takes in. It moves through me, first like a suggestion and finally like a freight train.
So, I combat the symptoms. The fuzzy head, the persistent addiction to ANYTHING (e.g., booze, sugar, new shoes), the never ending stream of tears and I soldier on. I embark on adventures to try to assuage my deep rooted belief that I am not, will not, EVER be enough until the crazy voice says "oh, you're enough all right. In fact, you're TOO MUCH." I am abstinent from all mind-altering chemicals, sugar and wheat. I participate in regular exercise which is, by definition, a "practice" (which I guess means that you never get good.) I work two jobs and frantically run from person to person trying to prove my worth -- to myself. Never once, asking myself, how do I like my eggs?!
It is the middle of the night and I am sleepless once again. The recent interactions with my sister (who I think might just be struggling with her own version of our childhood) have left me hopeless. Hopeless about myself, my relationships, my worth and my capacity to be in this world. Every interaction I have I play over and over to myself, making small corrections in how I COULD have been and still coming away with the gut wrenching sense of failure.
There are many, many people in my life who love me. The love me out loud. They have told me and shown me in countless occasions that they love me, but, as I have told my therapist -- I would rather be WANTED than loved. The feeling that drives me today is one that says "if YOU tell me I'm good, maybe I'm good." But I make the mistake of seeking that from people who are ill-equipped to wrap me in a loving and tender embrace and allow me to be truly fragile. Those loved ones DO exist in my life!! They are all around me. I am, however, so much more comfortable in the position of NEEDING approval and specifically from those who cannot or will not give it.
My dear friend, Simone tells me -- go where the love is. And the fearless and transparently truthful Anne Lamott regularly witnesses about her courage to call a loving friend.
The truth about my life is this: I am a woman who feels EVERYTHING to the bone. I am shamelessly emotional and loving. I am deeply committed to a life that matters, both to myself and others. I love unabashedly with my whole heart and when that heart is lying shattered on the cold tile floor, each piece continues its beating love. I want to be seen, heard, understood and included. My desires are, however, just a small expression of the more comprehensive longing to belong. Count me in, but more importantly Count On Me. Like Maggie, I regularly get myself TO the altar of being enough, but taking the plunge and allowing myself to walk away having committed myself to that truth is the sacred journey of my life.
